Treynor, Iowa. It's a small town of 900-some people. There are no stoplights there, but there is a post office and a grocery store. There is a bank, too, and the bank is the only establishment with a drive-thru. "Rush hour" occurs when school lets out, when the teenagers drive their hand-me-down Tauruses and Buicks and Oldsmobiles and Saturns out of the parking lot and onto the streets, onto Highway 92. Treynor is where, for better or worse, everyone knows everyone. And, for that matter, everyone knows everyone's closeted skeletons, for there aren't many secrets in small towns. It is unsurprising, then, that Treynor--as a former classmate said--is where "gossip runs deep and doors stay unlocked."

All the same, my little hometown has been making headlines recently.

Talk began this past summer--just before school started--when a student was arrested after allegedly sexually abusing four girls. The student was charged with two counts of third-degree sexual abuse and first-degree kidnapping. Allegations aside, there was one absolute truth: the student was the teenage son of the Treynor Community School district's superintendent.

The student eventually entered a plea deal, which left him in jail for two weeks. He was required to register as a sex offender and is now on probation for false imprisonment and assault. He no longer attends Treynor High School.

My understanding of the situation is gathered from the media and from the mouths of others. And, mind you, it is also pieced together six-hundred miles away from Treynor. There's a lot of opportunity for uncertainty. I can tell you, though, that the most recent headlines concern a petition asking for the resignation of the superintendent.

The town is split. Stakes are high.

And it hurts. From two states and a time zone away, the talk and the everything--online comments included--hurts.

In a story published by KETV, one Treynor student said, "I don't see bullying as a big problem."

That student is lucky. I sincerely hope that that student is enjoying high school, and--in the long run--has many a fond memory.

I have some fond memories of high school, too, most of which are related to extracurricular activities. Speech was undoubtedly my favorite. It involved acting, memorization, performance, improvisation, instinct, emotion, and bravery. There were the early morning practices, and the early morning bus rides to catch the early morning competitions in Des Moines or Clarinda. I loved it. I loved it all, and--eventually--I minored in theatre.

There were other activities, too. There was choir--though I am completely untalented at singing--and the yearly musicals. In the fall, marching band was always a joy. Furthermore, I treasured English, despised biology, and--save for those damn geometry proofs--legitimately enjoyed learning math.

I kept my nose clean, my grades high, and my mind on the cities I wished to move to. I always knew I'd seek opportunity and culture elsewhere, and my vocalization of that plan earned me a lot of criticism. In other words, in an exclusive community like Treynor, it is, at times, difficult to feel supported. It is even more difficult to feel understood.

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In high school, I was both the victim and the perpetrator of bullying. Words were my weapon. I made conclusions without learning all the facts. I was stubborn. I was opinionated. And I had both a fast temper and dangerously thin skin. I verbally attacked before taking time to ask for an explanation. I participated in gossip, contributed to rumors. God, I was terrible. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me?" Bullshit. I undoubtedly brought heartache and frustration to others, including my best friend and a member of my family.

To this day, those are my deepest regrets. It's been eight years now, and I still think about all the things I shouldn't have said.

I have yet to forgive myself for making enemies.

And for being juvenile. 

I took everything to heart. When I was picked last in P.E.--for my obvious and awkward lack of physical ability--I was embarrassed. When I was ridiculed for whom I had crushes on, I was mortified. My self-esteem began to decline in seventh grade, when I overhead a classmate tell a friend that I shouldn't be wearing makeup if I didn't know how to use it. When I was a sophomore, I remember sitting next to another classmate, who was writing a note. The note would migrate down the row of desks, be opened and read, and would return with another scribble, some more words. Words about me. My heart bled.

I don't know if it was because I was awkward. Because I was weird. Because I was quirky. If it was because I was adamantly against drinking. Because I cared more for academics and books than I ever did about sports. I don't know. I really don't know. I was just ... different, I guess.

I was often teased about my clothing. To this day, I enjoy bold colors. I've toned down since high school--I wear cardigans now, after all--but, back then, I didn't mind standing out. Purple leopard-print pants. Zebra-print shirts. Pink shoes. Snakeskin pants. Black, sleeveless tanks. I wore temporary tattoos and white nail polish, and, on some days, I even wore chopsticks in my hair. I was repaid with snide comments, sneers, and--unsurprisingly--more words. In seventh and eighth grade, I was one of the managers for the junior high basketball team. On game days, everyone involved with the team would dress up. One of my favorite outfits included a black skirt and high-heeled, knee-high boots. I believe the word "slut" was most often used to describe me and my outfit. (And, mind you, I was thirteen at the time. I had never had a "real" boyfriend, and it would be two years before I received my first kiss.)

When I was a fifteen, I was sexually harassed for the first time. A friend had asked me to go to prom with him, and I had happily accepted. A couple of weeks before prom, the house phone rang. I answered it, and was surprised to find that the person on the other end of the line wanted to speak to me.

"Who is this?" I asked.

The boy claimed to be my prom date. But his voice was different. Higher-pitched. Not the same.

Not my prom date.

My racing thoughts were confirmed when the boy asked if I would be providing oral sex after the prom. "You'll be giving me a blow job, right? I know you want to."

I was shocked. I was speechless. But despite the dead air on my end, the boy spewed a few more crude suggestions. I managed a quick "I gotta go" before hanging up the phone.

I told my mom. I told my prom date. I did not tell anyone else.

Two weeks later, my friend and I had a fantastic time at prom. He graduated soon after and went to college. He eventually married his college sweetheart. The individual who impersonated my prom date was charged with assault in 2005. Three years later, he was charged with two counts of third-degree sexual abuse. He is now in prison.

No parent wants to see their child in prison, in jail, or in handcuffs. That said, no parent wants to see their child be attacked or abused, either. Sometimes, we rightfully want justice. But, for every teen, for every child, for every son and daughter who is visibly struggling, there is a parent who also suffers from a broken heart. You can see it in the graying of their hair, the lines on their face, the hollowness of their eyes. Parents will do anything to keep their children from hurting.

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I spent most of high school feeling utterly and irrevocably lonely. Even now, I feel unwell when not in the company of others. I love people far too much; I love laughing, and I enjoy making others laugh. I no longer mind being "the quirky one." But in my formative years, in my hometown, my oddities were not always welcome. And so, on weekends, I would spend the days at home, on my computer, playing "Rollercoaster Tycoon" or "Age of Empires" for hours and hours and hours. It made me forget.

For a little while.

Back at school, I was the girl with spitballs in her hair, the girl who spent half of economics class plucking sodden bits of paper from her curls. I was afraid to ask teachers questions about assignments, afraid I would be confronted with a classmate's snide "Why do you care so much?" Books were knocked from my hands as I walked down the hallway. True enough, the knock-em-outta-their-hands-while-you-can prank happened to many others. But, for me, it was just one more thing. I was already having things stolen from my locker--my hairbrush, my pens, my pencils, my mirror, my homework. Even the photos I had up in my locker were stolen. Or, sometimes, they were shredded and confetti-ed across my books. And on my birthday, when my friends would hang a homemade sign on my locker, I would often return to it, to find it, too, shredded. Ripped. Torn. On the ground and stepped on, just like my esteem.

It's amazing, really, how whispers in the hallway make us feel so worthless.

I didn't know what to do. I figured that teachers and "the uppers" would brush things aside, dismiss the comments and the pranks as "teens being teens." Sure, insecurity comes with high school. So do bouts of low self-esteem. And there are always jokes, immature actions, and kids depants-ing each other in the hallway. Girls are dramatic, boys are gross. Shit happens.

But, sometimes, you just want some reprieve. You want to go one week without having something go missing from your locker. One week without snickers of laughter in P.E., when you fail, again, at badminton. One week without spitballs, without name-calling, without judgment for growing up in a family who never had any money. So you do things you're afraid to do. You do it because, this way, people will ignore you rather than mock you. So you let them cheat off of you. You let them copy your homework. You let them look over your shoulder on tests. You whisper answers, sign the letters "A," "B," "C," or "D." You're afraid to get caught. You're afraid everyone will know. You're afraid of continuing to be used but, hey, at least things are "better," right?

We were immature. I was immature.

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I still take things to heart. I still struggle with self-esteem. And, when I come home at night, after deadlines have been met and documents have been pushed through, I still get lonely.

That's when I'm most nostalgic.

I think back to the things I should have done in place of the things I said. I think back, and wonder how I pushed through some days, and why I chose to shake my mom's suggestion of open-enrolling. I think of the cattiness, the gossip, the drama, the silliness, the jokes, the fads. And I wonder about others. I wonder how they perceive high school. I wonder if they enjoyed it, or if they, too, dreaded the mornings. I wonder what their perspective is, for there is always another side, another point-of-view, another value system.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

Not true.

I still have insecurities from eight years ago, ten years ago, junior high. True enough, sometimes we didn't know any better. ... But, sometimes, we did. I've done my best to move on, to forget everything that doesn't matter anymore. But all the same, late at night, I'm left wondering if I'll ever be forgiven, too.


When I was a senior in high school--hell, maybe even when I was a junior--I wanted to move to Chicago. Without question, without reason, I wanted to be there. Something about it being a city of Midwestern hospitality and coastal diversity. It had opportunities. It had people. It had atmosphere and adventure and a pace faster than that of my small hometown. It had newspapers and publishers and editors and magazines and things I wanted, I really wanted. So, at seventeen, I applied to Columbia College and was happily accepted. That year, over Easter weekend, my mom and I traveled to Chicago--our first time driving in the Windy City. We were confused and flustered (which is to no one's surprise), but we both loved the college visit itself. God, how I wanted to be there. I really, really wanted to be there.

But, at seventeen, I was as naive as I was idyllic. So, of course, I didn't end up in Chicago after graduation.

That just wasn't the time.

Eight years have passed since I was accepted at Columbia College. And, you know what? It still isn't the time. ... Probably because I'm still naive and still idyllic.

But Chicago is still ... Chicago. It's not overwhelming. It's not intimidating. It's not egotistical. It's not frenzied. It's intelligent, collected. And it's more humble than other large cities. And even though I couldn't be there when I was seventeen, and even though I'm not there at twenty-five, there's still a part of me that aches for its streets, wanting for its atmosphere.

... which, perhaps, is why I'll be there this weekend. 


I've always been drawn to the abandoned and forgotten. The left-behind and dilapidated. I suppose a particular building or place--or even person--intrigues me because of its obvious weathering. It has a history. It has a story. Uncovering the background of a building--learning when it was built, who it was built by, who it was built for, and what it was used for--I enjoy that. I enjoy discovering what time has taken for its own. Because, in the end, we don't want to be forgotten, and we don't want the places we loved to be lost, either.


I'm cross-legged in my computer chair, clad with black leggings and a flannel shirt that's not mine. I've been outside once already today, layered with a coat and a hat and scarf, all of which were soaked and dripping after my hour-long walk in the snow. There's several inches out there now, with more to come. The trees are heavy, bending, yielding. Power lines, too, are weighted, and there are many thousands of people in the city who are currently without electricity. But all is well where I am ... at least for the moment. Thankfully, I did not have to venture to the office today. No, I slept in. I slept in and awoke to a sparkling, quiet, white wonderland.

On my walk, I encountered a few individuals, some of whom were taking their dogs for a leisurely stroll before the temperature plummets below zero. Traffic was almost nonexistent; sounds were blanketed by snow, muffled and soft. I could hear only the crunch beneath my shoes. I wasn't cold, though I did manage a snowflake directly to the eye. And, while momentarily removing my hat to shake off what had collected there, I learned the pain of having yet another snowflake fly directly into my ear canal.

Soon, I will go outside once more, to attack my steps and walkway. Shovel. Shovel. Shovel. Wet shoes, damp hands, cold toes, a runny nose. The snow will stick to my wool coat. It will collect on my scarf and threaten to tumble down, to my bare skin. I'll shiver, grumble, curse the weather and the winter. But, back inside, there's a cozy blanket, and a thick, white comforter. There are marshmallows and an evergreen-scented candle, and that flannel shirt that somehow, who knows how, smells of Calvin Klein and cigarettes.

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